Claimed By The Crescent Rivals

If the Alphas ever learned who I really was, they wouldn’t simply kill me. They’d rip me to pieces fighting over which pack got to keep what was left of my bloodline. So I made myself invisible. For two long years I hid in plain sight at The Broken Fang—a filthy, lawless tavern perched right on the neutral border between the three largest werewolf territories. To the raiders, rogues, and warriors who drank there, I was just Aria. A broken, nameless Omega maid. I kept my head down, smeared dirt on my cheeks, and soaked my clothes in cheap ale until even I could barely smell myself. It worked. Until tonight. “Move it, Aria! They’re losing their tempers!” Barney, the tavern’s short-tempered Beta owner, shoved a heavy iron tray into my hands. Three crystal decanters of blood-wine rattled hard enough to spill. “The Tri-Pack Summit leaders just arrived. You go in, you pour, you get out. Don’t look them in the eye. One wrong move and we’re all dead.” My chest tightened. Cold sweat prickled along the back of my neck. The Summit. The three most ruthless Alphas on the continent were sitting in our private pavilion to sign a fragile peace treaty. “I understand,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft and submissive. “Then go!” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and pushed through the heavy oak doors. The moment I stepped inside, the air left my lungs. The weight of Alpha aura in that room was crushing—like gravity itself was trying to force me to my knees. The pavilion was dim, dominated by a massive triangular table. At each point sat one of the men who ruled our world. To my left was Alpha Killian of the BloodClaw Pack. A mountain of a man whose shoulders strained the seams of his leather jacket. His face was a map of old scars. He looked like someone who ruled through pure bloodshed and never apologized for it. To my right sat Alpha Ronan of the ShadowStone Pack. Flawless charcoal suit, silver-rimmed glasses, the picture of cold aristocracy. But the darkness in his eyes said he was just as lethal as the rest of them—only quieter about it. And at the head of the table was Alpha Jax, newly crowned leader of the Northern Rogue Packs. Mud-caked boots propped on the expensive mahogany, messy golden hair, that permanent smirk. The wild card. Pour the wine. Get out. I repeated it like a prayer. Eyes fixed on the floor, I approached Killian first. My hands shook as I filled his glass. He didn’t even glance at me. Good. I moved to Ronan. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the rain against the windows while I poured. Then I stepped toward Jax. I leaned in—and the heavy silver pendant I’d kept hidden under my oversized tunic slipped free. It caught the candlelight: the royal crest of my slaughtered family. A silver crescent moon wrapped in thorns. Panic hit like a physical blow. I jerked back. My foot caught the edge of the rug. Smash. The decanter cracked against Jax’s glass. Dark red wine exploded across his leather boots. The silence that followed was absolute. The room went cold. “I—I’m sorry, Alpha,” I choked, dropping to my knees. I grabbed the hem of my apron and started scrubbing at his boot. “It was an accident. Please.” “Get your hands off me, Omega.” Jax’s voice was a low growl that vibrated through my bones. But he didn’t kick me away. A sudden draft swept through the open windows and carried the scent of wine with it. Then something else hit—something that started at the base of my spine and exploded outward like liquid fire. My wolf, silent and dormant for ten years, roared awake inside my head, clawing to get free. MINE. The word wasn’t mine. It echoed through the entire room. I gasped and looked up. Jax had gone completely still. His boots hit the floor. His amber eyes dilated until they were almost black. He stared down at me, chest rising and falling hard. Across the table, Killian slammed both fists into the mahogany hard enough to crack it. He rose, nostrils flaring. “What is that scent?” The possessive rage in his voice made the air itself feel dangerous. I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, but it was already too late. The suppressive herbs had failed. The scent of vanilla, rain, and winter frost poured off my skin in a wave I couldn’t stop. Ronan stood slowly, tearing his glasses off. The calm mask was gone, replaced by something dark and hungry. “It’s her,” he whispered. “The mate.” “My mate,” Killian snarled, claws shredding through his gloves. “The hell she is.” Jax stepped between me and the other two, fangs bared. “She’s mine. My wolf claims her.” “Touch her and I’ll burn your territory to ash,” Ronan said, his aura flaring so hard the windows behind him cracked. Three crushing Alpha auras slammed into one another, warping the air. They weren’t just realizing I was a mate. They were realizing the impossible. I belonged to all three of them. They were going to tear each other—and this tavern—apart to claim me. I didn’t wait for the first throat to be ripped out. While they were locked in that deadly standoff, I slipped through the velvet curtains of the service exit and ran straight into the pouring rain. I ran until my lungs burned. I ran until the muddy roots tore my bare feet open. Thunder cracked overhead. Behind me, three deafening, blood-curdling howls rose from the tavern. They weren’t hunting a rogue. They were hunting me. And they were gaining ground. Fast.